Quixotic
by PURGATIVESFORCHOLERA
Summary: Marius finally musters up the courage to talk to his Ursule, only to discover that Courfeyrac has met her first.
1. Marius throws a hissy fit

**Admittedly, I wasn't going to upload this. I wrote it for Lady Katherine over at Abaisse, but her sign-ons are so irregular, that I figured it'd be easier to just put it here. And besides, I needed two links for the Cosette/Courfeyrac page on the Mizwiki, and I could only found one.**

** Zomg, spoilers. Zomg, AU. Zomg, Cosette/Courfeyrac. Zomg, bad fic. Zomg, terrible revolutionary speeches, which quite truly, I have no excuses for. Other than uhh, that part was early in my fandom history, and I'm too sentimental to change it? **

**Disclaimer: God, if I lived in the 1800s, I. Would. Swoon. Sadly, I don't. **

The atmosphere in the Café Musain was often one of drunken glee, most of that could be acquitted to Grantaire. Whilst Enjolras tried to sustain an air of calm, Grantaire encouraged all acts of debauchery. Need a woman for the night? Ask Grantaire. What kind of wine is that, exactly? Forward your inquiry to Grantaire. What really rifles Enjolras' feathers? Grantaire would be quite pleased to answer that question. Thus, when Marius strolled in the Cafe that fine evening, he couldn't help but offer his cup to a kindred soul. "Pardon?" Marius glanced up at the city delinquent, his puzzled expression echoing his inflection. Sighing, he shook his head, grinning lewdly. It amazed, and slightly amused him, that the boy managed to survive a day in Paris, let alone a year. Even more so, since the poor boy's only friend was Courfeyrac. "I said, 'You'll learn very quickly that the Green Fairy shall never leave you.'" The expression of curiosity on Marius' face never lifted-- his brow thickened, and his eyes averted downwards-- Grantaire took the opportunity, and shoved a glass of wine into his young friend's hand. Marius looked disdainfully at the glass before slowly grasping it in his tender hands. The drunkard grinned, his teeth barred in a look of sheer satisfaction. "You know, mon ami, you should come around more often. It's awfully boring without someone as uh, _caring_ as you."

Marius didn't turn a gaze, so caught up in his melancholy. What was his purpose now? His dear Ursula! She had once dropped her handkerchief; he thought it a dainty little thing, fit for a lithe creature such as herself. Oh, how he longed to touch her sweet hands, white as doves, soft as flower petals. Not just any flowers, mind you! Only the most exotic, and rare flowers for his dearest Ursula; flowers of lesser appearance would simply not do. Oh, his Ursula! Life without his angel was truly not a life at all.

Marius snapped his head upwards to gaze at Grantaire, as a smack echoed throughout the small room. Enjolras had grabbed the freshly-opened wine bottle from man's hands, scolding him for fowling up their café. How dare him! How _dare_ him! Grantaire reached up, and caressed his young idol's cheek, muttering a quite disgraceful comment about the republic, "Camille, mon petit, you're too beautiful to die in a bath of blood," he cringed, as if just imaging that train of thought caused him physical pain. Enjolras growled, his much-envied after pearly whites showing, before tugging the offending arm downwards, and demanding that he go home, if he had a home, at least, and sober up before he would dare show his face in this café once more. Grantaire laughed, hollow, and utterly devoid of emotion.

He pushed against Marius, shaking an arm around the young man, and then resting his unruly head of locks upon the lawyer's shoulder. The blond man of twenty-one growled tersely, "Shall you allow me to remind all of you: This is not a game. It most certainly is not a game for rich young boys. Go home, lest you get injured." Seated next in the table next to the action, Combeferre sighed, before turning to Jehan. His friend had only one course of action, flight, or fight. Camille, of course, chose fight. Either you were against the republic, or you were for it. If you were against it, he frankly, wanted nothing with you; he thought you a waste of air, and most definitely, time. It could be terribly tiring at times—but more often than naught, admirable.

Marius stared dumb-struck at the entrance to the back-room, before turning to the philosopher, addressing him: "You're not going to search for him?" He shook his head, pushing his spectacles up, them, hugging his nose. "He'll, no doubt, fume around Paris for quite a time. You shan't need to fret, Marius." Marius nodded his head, unsure.

"Who would like a drink?" The gay student known as Courfeyrac to anyone outside Les Amis, and his relatives, of course, and Aimery to anyone willing to deal with him, shouted gleefully. "Not I," a nasal voice responded, "I've got do disit da apodecary's for da blasted dold I have."

The voice next to him snorted, replying, "I know what you've got—dementia." Joly sniffled before raising his tone in defense, "How can you be sure that I don't?" Bahorel chuckled deep within his throat, "You can tell by looking at the colour of your tongue. Red—dementia. Blue—cholera. If it's yellow, I, frankly, pray for your life, yellow—consumption." Joly looked about the room frantically, before finally voicing his request. "Boes anyone dave a dirror?" Bossuet shifted through the pockets of his multi-layer waist-coat; he looked as he was a child wearing his father's clothes. "I've seemed to have left it at the apartment." He sniffled a bit, before carefully un-tangling his ankles from the chair. "Are you absolutely certain you don't want a drink, Joly? It's my treat." Courfeyrac called out from his table with Feuilly. "Do," Joly responded, "I dave to get medicine." The student from Marseille raised his glass in jest, grinning madly, "Very well then," he said, taking a sip of his drink, "Your loss."

The medical student sniffled while heading towards the door, his cherished roommate at his heels. Combeferre exchanged pleasantries with Courfeyrac, before taking his leave as well. Seizing the chance, Grantaire swiftly refilled Marius' glass; honestly, Pontmercy was terribly easy to fool, much more so for him than Enjolras, he pondered. Why couldn't that man let go of his ridiculous ideals? Hell, Grantaire need just one measly second! A slight slip of his glass, whoops, and Enjolras would be his-- granted, that that Combeferre would need to be distracted. He couldn't go a day without that goody two-shoes interrupting him. You shouldn't rile Enjolras up like that; Grantaire, you shouldn't tease Enjolras about the republic; Grantaire, this is not beneficial. If he could persuade Enjolras' guard-dog to let loose for a few chance moments, he could finally obtain his Camille. In the meantime, he would have to make do with Pontmercy. He'd never wanted Pontmercy; too much of a dreamer, and an unrequited love as well! But if he were indeed here, he might as well make use of the situation.

"Pontmercy," he said flippantly, "Where _is_ that girl you were dwindling over?" Marius stared into the wine with a dazed look in his eyes, as if he were reliving a tragedy. "Ursula," he whispered, grief-stricken, "Oh, life is pointless as it ever was!" Grantaire nodded intent on pouring more wine into Marius' glass. After all, he was true to three things: Enjolras, the Green Fairy, and his motto, which went: The Drunker they are, the happier they are! "I shall never see Ursula again! All my searching was for naught!" He reached and patted the love sick boy's shoulder as Courfeyrac cam bounding over to the table of never-ending woes.

"Grantaire, stop bothering Marius, shan't you?"

The drunkard scowled up at him, declaring "I'm not bothering him; if you had an ounce of common sense you'd see that. I'm merely assisting a friend in their time of need." Courfeyrac chuckled as Grantaire's brows turned down.

"You're as much as his friend, as Louis-Philippe is Enjolras' idol."

Grantaire scoffed at the notion, and directed his next inquiry to Marius, "We're friends, aren't we, Marius?"

Marius nodded his head slowly as his head was in a fog. The wine had certainly done its job of numbing the pain; he couldn't feel a thing, the only thought that passed through his brain was his knowledge of hotels in Paris, and how his mouth tasted as he had swallowed an over-sized cotton-ball. Grantaire nodded, satisfaction lining his voice, "Louison! Cherie! You shan't give Monsieur de Courfeyrac," he made sure to stress the "de" in "de Courfeyrac," --he'd do anything to ruffle an Amis' feathers. 'Twas a truly wasted day if he did not snark one of his fellow countrymen out, at least once. "Here anymore wine, shall you?"

"Go to hell, Grantaire!"

The voice resounded from the front room. "Love you too, chèrie."

Louison muttered a couple times about that "miserable bastard, Grantaire." Courfeyrac shook his head at the scene, before saying his goodbyes to Feuilly, and advising his naïve friend to stay on his guard.

"Au'voir, Louison!"

"Oh, shut up, Courfeyrac!"

Smirking like a fool, he stepped out into the front of the café, making a few side-trips to talk with a strapping blonde at the bar.

**

Soon afterwards, Feuilly and Prouvaire both said their farewells, albeit, Louison wished them well sweetly, unlike Grantaire and Courfeyrac moments before.

Grantaire leaned into Marius, close enough that Marius felt he was in Toulon, with Grantaire's fishy breath breathing upon him. Touching his shoulder, he made his proposal, "Come on, mon ami, wouldn't it be nice to forget all your troubles? For just one night, to be just Marius Pontmercy, law student, and not Marius Pontmercy, woman's lover?" Grantaire's lower lip shrank back inside the warm caverns of his mouth, the upper lip shaking softly. Marius shook his head slowly, the wine still coursing through his system. "No, I have to talk to Enjolras about s-some meeting arrangement."

He rushed his mouth to form the syllables; he had just as swiftly conjured up that explanation. He prayed Grantaire wouldn't pick up on that slight stutter, either it was the wine, Marius put it on the wine, or it was the intimidation of failure looming over him. Grantaire's ears, unfortunately, indeed perked up at the slight undertone of Marius' voice. His eyes bulged; his grin was as lewd as a panther grinning at its trapped prey. "Enjolras, you say? I know many things, my dear Marius, Enjolras' residence is one of them."

He gazed at the trembling boy, touching his shoulder once more, "I can take you to see him now, if you want, mon ami," Marius bit his lip thoughtfully. If he dared refuse now, it would be evident that Marius was fearful of Grantaire-- that was to be expected. If he backed down now, Grantaire would relentlessly hammer him.

If Enjolras hated him so, and Marius knew this for a fact, for what reason did Grantaire have for knowing that? "All right," he said unsure, "if you really _do_ know where Enjolras is," Grantaire chuckled, "Of course I do! Would I ever lie to you, mon ami?" Marius pondered whether to answer truthfully, and very possibly, never see Enjolras, or to just withhold his comments. Honestly, it would probably be better to do the latter, Marius thought to himself. The man tugged on his arm, swaddled in Courfeyrac's old green waist-coast, pulling him to the door to the main café.

**

Marius was withdrawn through-out the walk. His head was still suffering the effects of alcohol, and he longed to touch Ursula's tender hands, or to feel her wiry locks slip through his fingers. He threw a side-long glance at Grantaire; the man was mumbling to himself, and chugging down more wine he managed to sneak by Louison.

Marius simply could not understand the man. He let himself thrive in the lower dredges of the underworld, and did not even attempt to pull himself up. What was it for? Another drink and another night in some poor grisette's company? One more night spent with someone other than Mam'zelle Malice and the Green Fairy?

His Ursula was lost to him forever. He would look no longer gaze at her beauty; he would never whisper sweet-nothings into her chestnut locks; he would hear that angelic laugh fall upon his ears. Now, he had only imagined doing these things, but it was all the same. What was he now? Another average law student wallowing in self-pity, and the cruelties of unrequited love? Courfeyrac didn't help much; frankly, he did the opposite. Who else was there? No-one. He was alone. He had the right to be, he told himself. He thought awful sentiments about his poor Father; neglecting him when he lay on his death bed; he was a fool, following his angel home that night.

He lifted his head to gaze at the houses on the rich boulevard. Rue de l'Homme-Armé, or something or other? He was about to lower his head down to rest upon his shoulders, when a certain apartment caught his eye. His angel was in there! His dearest Ursula! His heart raced, and his palms perspired.

Marius recorded the number of the modest house—_modest?-_-, fifty-five, before trotting over to the window pane. His Ursula was no doubt of aristo origin, the size of those windows! The fact that she had windows at all shocked Marius. He shouldn't have been surprised; really, he was in the rich section of town. Besides, his angel had lived on the third floor!

He knocked on the pane, as Grantaire looked curiously at him. "Marius? I thought you wanted to see Enjolras? Shan't you?" Marius shook his head, mumbling something inaudible. His Ursula would come soon; then, he would proclaim his love for her, and she for him, Marius' life would be made. He froze as a thought unwillingly made its way through his brain. What if Monsieur Leblanc came out, not his Ursula? They would no doubt, move again, and he would be even more lost than he was before. A candle appeared in the doorway, as Marius leapt behind the gate, breathing heavily. The shrubs obscured his view, protecting him from sight. Grantaire had leaned against the right side of the gate, mumbling about his love for Enjolras, adding a few remarks about how Aphrodite drew pleasure from scorning him. The chestnut door opened up, as Marius held his breath, cheeks flushed with perspiration. His eyes, the brown irises, were wide open, his hands tight with panic. It could all be over in one second. Monsieur Leblanc would spot him; Ursula would cease to exist the next day._ He_ stood in front of the door, glaring at the surrounding area. Who would dare intrude upon his Ursula's night-time? No doubt some suitor wishing to take away his child without a single thought for her well-being.

His eyes caught on the drunken slob lying against the cool metal of the gate, and his gaze softened. He went back into the house, rummaging in the assorted drawers before re-entering the threshold. With a tender smile upon his face, Monsieur Leblanc walked up to Grantaire, placing a few measly sous into the open palm. He patted the rangy head gingerly, before returning to his abode, and softly shutting the door. Grantaire picked himself up, body titling every which way, and stumbled down the boulevard, set on his quest to find Enjolras.

Marius, hearing the door shut, slumped down on the ground, all energy sucked out of him for fear of capture. Good lord was he scatterbrained. The thought that one small misstep would place his Ursula miles away clenched his heart strings. He pushed himself on his fore loins, and rushed his shaking limbs to the end of the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, intent on reaching his apartment in the Gorbeau slum.

**

When dawn broke the next day, Marius Pontmercy was already wide awake, still shaken from the prior night's excursion. He contemplated sitting in the Luxemburg for a couple hours, hoping it would recollect his thoughts, and maybe catch a glimpse of his Ursula. Putting on his good coat, Marius fidgeted with his clothes, in the event that his Ursula viewed him.

His land-lady, Ma Bougon, or Grumpypants as Courfeyrac called her, viewed his leaving with an unrelenting interest. That silly boy had worn his good clothes for weeks now, always going out at the same exact moment, sometimes not coming home, other times, midnight. She had tried to follow his trail a couple of times, but the stupid boy ran too fast.

Sweeping the floor inside "Monsieur Marius' " apartment, she heard the door slam shut, wobbling on its hinges. She sighed as the whole frame of the house shook in agreement with the frail door.

**

Marius padded down to his signature bench in the Luxemburg. He held a copy of his favourite story, Abelard and Heloise. He didn't imagine getting much into it this day; he would, no doubt, stare at a page blindly for a couple of hours, scouting out the area for Ursula. It was spring time; for students at the Sorbonne, this meant lunch-time excursions. He would no doubt see Courfeyrac bounding down around lunch time.

A noise erupted from the other side of the park; Marius noted absent mindedly that it occurred where Ursula and Monsieur Leblanc usually sat. "Come now! Surely you must like more than that!" He heard Courfeyrac's gay voice shout. He would then bound over to Marius, utterly disgracing him with his inappropriate wise-cracks. He dared to glance up at the commotion, and as he did so, his breath caught in his throat, and Marius was strapped for air. Courfeyrac, that insufferable lout he had for a friend, was assaulting his Ursula. His temper flared; how dare he ruin his beloved innocent! A fine girl such as her shan't need such filth as a companion!

Face flushed red as the sunset, eyes strained, lips tight, Marius closed his book, clenching his hands in his pockets. He prayed that his Ursula hadn't brought this upon herself; if so, he made a pact to never accept her apologies. What a disgraceful event! Her, an innocent, pure bourgeoisie, without a shred of malice in her lithe figure, associating with the epitome of grim! What a repulsing sight!

Courfeyrac glanced over at him; his grin almost feral. He watched as Marius' mouth dropped in flabbergasted anger, and suggested something to Ursula that Marius couldn't hear. Curse his distance! She nodded, and they walked over to the pass where trees were covering the way. His fists were clenched; Marius wouldn't even try and unwind himself. This was absolutely inane! Here he was, making love-struck faces at his "friend"—honestly, Marius could never understand the man. He wouldn't even try and bother, either—seducing _his_ Ursula, whilst he could stand up, and become something, and rescue his Ursula from that fiend!

Marius felt a presence come closer behind him, silently praying that it was indeed M'sr Leblanc. He had always been an enigma to Marius; it was clear Ursula fancied him, yet, he would deny her so. Yes, yes, social properness is all good, but true love couldn't even compare! To his slight disappointment, and overwhelming shock, it was not Monsieur Leblanc who was coming near; it was the promenading Courfeyrac and Ursula. "My word! Marius? Well! The things you find whilst you least expect it!" he heard the voice boom, feigned surprised behind him.

He growled lowly, turning around to face the couple. He was about to politely disregard his friend's remarks, when he heard his angel's voice direct a question towards him, "Marius? Is that your name?" He was frozen; his angel had spoken to _him!_ He finally heard her sweet voice, soft and flowing, yet, light, and balancing. It was the perfect combination between naïveté and femininity. "It's a pretty name, to be sure. I like it." He was still frozen in his shocked glee, when Courfeyrac tried to dissuade her, "Now, now, my dear! Surely you must think something else gorgeous! "Marius" is just plain Marius. Now, "Camille", that is a beautiful name."

She frowned, as if she were trying on different faces, and then commented, looking up into Courfeyrac's eyes, a slight pout playing upon her lips. "Well, I like the name 'Marius'." He chuckled, grabbing her arm gently. "Well, you can like anything you wish. As long as you stay as the doll you are." Gesturing about, he finished, "Now, come on. Let's get you a new bonnet, eh? Maybe stop for a crêpe?" Marius grasped about frantically, shouting, "I don't even know your name! Now, how fair is it that you know mine, yet, I know nothing of you, my dear Ursula?" She stopped, looking at him oddly. "I'm terribly sorry—are you talking to me? If so, I don't know who "Ursula" is . . . my name is Cosette Fauchelevent. Well, my true name is Euphrasie—that is my Christian name, my mother, whom I don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting, called me "Cosette". Thus, it stuck."

Marius grasped one of her small hands, basking in the small triumph. "My name is Marius Pontmercy, Mam'zelle." He thought of bending down to kiss her dear hand, but he quickly declared that uncouth. Courfeyrac busted in, grasping Cosette's hand once more, his voice wielding a slight frantic edge, "Come my dear. Marius, don't you have a lecture to go to? I'd be wrong in saying that someone will save you this time."

Lectures? Why the blasted life should he care about lectures when he was talking to his dear Ursula—no, not Ursula. Cosette, he reminded himself. Cosette Fauchelevent. What a sweet name! Sweet enough to compare to the bearer, he thought, on cloud nine. "Oh, yes. I guess I shall take my leave. Goodbye, Mam'zelle."

"Aww, don't I get a goodbye, Marius?" he scurried away as Courfeyrac's boisterous laughter filling his ears, his cheeks burning yet again.


	2. Flowers in the Garden

"Courfeyrac, if you press even a finger into this estate, I will see that by to-morrow, you won't have anything to press."

"But monsters are there!" he cried out, imitating a girl's shrill tone.

"Do I look like I am laughing?"

"You never laugh in the first place, so I can hardly see why that should matter." Courfeyrac pouted, stopping short of the door way.

"I mean it."

He pouted, before sighing, and reluctantly, leaning against the doorframe. "Oh, fine. I'll just stay out here. You don't mind, do you chèrie?"

He sighed, the corner of his eyes still focused on Courfeyrac.

You know, Enjolras, if your eye can do that, you might want to get that checked out. I'm sure Combeferre would oblige to do it for you."

"He's, no doubt, pre-occupied with Joly."

"But the question is: doing what?"

"'Doing what'? Doing exactly as I said: giving the delusional boy his examination."

"Oh, _dear_." Courfeyrac leaned forward, his face warped into an expression of utter pity. "You honestly don't know?"

"Pity me, Courfeyrac: what are you rambling about?"

"Oh, come on now. You can't honestly expect Joly to be sick. The boy's in there for a "check-up."

He broke out into a guffaw, seeing Enjolras' blank expression.

**

"Do you love me?"

"Of course I do!" she pouted, drawing her bottom lip up to curl.

"Will you always love me?"

"Forever, and always." He sealed this promise with a kiss. She leaned down, pushing his chest with her tiny hands.

"Much more than that queer bird you always used to hang around."

"Marius?"

"Yes, that's it. What an odd character—he was always so formal. "

"I miss that lad." He sniffed, rubbing his nose upon her shoulder.

"Oh, forget about him. You have me now."

"My, my. Ma belle Euphrasie is frisky this fine summer night are we?" he grinned up at her, grasping her around the waist.

"Of course. Watching those two friends of yours practically grope each other incessantly will do that to a person."

"Enjolras and Combeferre?" he paused from nipping her neck, to add: "Hmm. I'd always imagined Combeferre to be more discreet—after all I did engage in intercourse with the man."

"M'sr de Courfeyrac, your cabriolet is waiting."

**

Marius awake, placing a palm on his forehead, shifting up as he oriented himself. "God Almighty, my dearest Cosette with that_ slime_." He shuddered, reaching a palm out to touch her cheek. "Are you awake yet, dearest?"

"I am now." A gravely voice answered, lifting itself up, and groggily rubbing its eyes.

He screamed, accidently slipping off the bed as he crawled away in utter terror.

"What? Last night you were oh-so-eager. Pity. That was terribly pleasant."

"What are you talking about? Get out of here."

"You wouldn't have said that last night."

"I mean it, Grantaire!" he shrieked, wrapping the sheets around him.

"All right, all right. But preceding my bottom once more lying on the cold, filthy streets, may I be permitted to answer your first question?"

"Speak quickly."

"Ahh, the baron in a hurry. I see. Very well. After goody goody two shoes had a night-long groping session with God, they left, and Courfeyrac came in (after standing at that door hours, honestly, I admire that man's stamina), this pretty little thing hanging off his arm. Looked very proper—probably some bourgeois' daughter. I've warned him time and time again to not meddle in bourgeoisie affaires, but has the boy listened? No. At any rate, the girl's name was Colette, or some sparkly bourgeoisie garbage."

"What did she look like?"

"Oh, awful clothes. Even Enjolras dressed better than her---do you know, I've always thought Louison or Joly's girl, Musichetta?—should give him fashion lessons."

He rolled his eyes, ignoring Marius' pointed stare.

"All right. Stop glaring at me like that—it makes you appear more feminine than you already are—if that were possible. I think Prouvaire, who to his credit, was decently dressed in blue and white. Honestly, it's as if Joly and Courfeyrac helped him. Next they can do Enjolras, if that witch, Musichetta doesn't get to him first, and went: she looks awfully like your Ursula, Marius. God knows what he was talking about—the boy speaks in riddles constantly, it's as if his Mother drank sewer water when having him—I wouldn't doubt that. "

"What did Courfeyrac say?"

"Something like: "I picked her up in the Luxembourg gardens." To which Enjolras replied: One wonders when you manage to study, Courfeyrac. It developed into a free-for-all, Prouvaire' remark was the only disconcernable one: It'd truly be a shame for you to be sent back home, Courfeyrac. It quieted down, Louison hammering at the floor with her frustrated stomps, and then Enjolras muttered: Yes, truly. Combeferre whacked him on the arm, eliciting a scowl. Then, the girl pointed to you, giggling and whispering something in Courfeyrac's ear."

"Oh?" he replied, grinning as he looked up to you. 'Oh, Marius? Beloved? You know my sweetest friend?—Besides you, Enjolras. This fine mademoiselle to my left?' "Yes, he makes a habit of walking around our bench at the garden. Papa says he's a stalker, but I refuse to believe that. He seems so sweet.' "You are a queer bird, Marius Pontmercy. I'll give you that.' "Ursula?' "Oh, I love guessing games!' "No, no. Your name is Ursule Favre, is it not?' "Why, Ursule's a fabulous name! Unfortunately, I am not the bearer of that name. My name is Cosette Fauchelevent. I am so inexplicably delighted to meet you, Monsieur Marius!"' she cried, clasping her hands."

"Her real name is Euphrasie, were you aware of that, Marius?" He looked innocently into Marius' brown orbs, giving the boy his best puppy dog look.

"Stop teasing Marius, would you Aimery?"

"Here's comes the sole officer of the Fun Police: Combeferre."

"You only say that because you know my words ring true."

"By-the-by, you may have to explain to dear Enjolras here what a "check-up" means." He commented, risking a glance towards Enjolras, who was currently reading a book—probably the memoirs of Saint-Just, and tuning him out.

"Why, I gave him one last week! You needn't fret, Aimery. He's perfectly well."

"I'm simply worried for my dearest friend's health, that's all. It'd be a true shame for him to go insane before 20."

Combeferre looked at him, queerly, speaking slowly. "Aimery, his 21th birthday was two weeks ago—I distinctly remember seeing you harassing him."

"I did no more harm to him than you did to-day." He said, huffing as he crossed his arms, dropping Cosette's hand.

"I did no such thing!" his friend sputtered, blushing ferociously.

Courfeyrac laughed, patting Combeferre on the arm.

"Of course not. That's exactly why I heard him mumble: "Audric, take your hand off my leg this moment, damn you."

He laughed once more as Combeferre flushed.

"Then what?"

"Then, Courfeyrac took Cosette home, and you drunk on the drug of life, made an off to me to share your bed with the green fairy, and you. I obliged, seeing as my other options were taken."

"Oh, God." He groaned, resting his head in his hands.

"What? The sex wasn't good enough for you?" he scowled at the boy, breaking out into a grin as he threw his arms around him. "By-the-by, I have to ask: you said something about Courfeyrac being much better at this than I. Care to elaborate?"

He blushed, refusing to meet Grantaire's eyes. "That wasn't meant to happen . ."

"Obviously." Grantaire snorted, pulling on his ragged shirt.

"Where are you going?"

"To go to see if the lovebirds are up yet. Bug 'em a bit."

"Courfeyrac?"

"Probably not, but it's possible."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure whether goody two shoes convinced the Goddess to allow Slut master in their bed, or not."

"Who are we talking about?"

"Combeferre and Enjolras, obviously."

"They sleep together?"

Grantaire ceased adjusting his clothes to glance at the boy, his glance of surprise and pity.

"When Courfeyrac said you were truly that oblivious, I wasn't terribly inclined to believe him. Despite the fact that you stalked a girl for a few years, not even asking her her name. I see my mistake now. Courfeyrac is always serious, whether he knows it or not."

"You know their address?"

"Courfeyrac does. No doubt the man knows the address of every girl in this city—and then some extraordinarily pretty boys."

"Enjolras?"

Grantaire grinned coyly at him. "Aww, do you have a crush, Marius?"

"No." He mumbled, as he fought down a blush.

**

"Hello, Monsieur Marius. Monsieur Courfeyrac here tells me you are a baron. Is that right?"

"I could assume so." He muttered, blushing as he fought to keep his gaze down. Better to not let the angel see your hideous face.

"Now, beloved. My friends refer to me by my first name—which is just how I regard you."

"Oh, but I'd feel just awful talking to you with such familiarity!"

"Let's go ask your Father then, shan't we?" he inquired, grasping her elbow tenderly, and turning her away. She grabbed his arm urgently, her brown eyes wide with fright. "I must warn you: Papa can have an awful temper."

"There's nothing I wouldn't face to see you smile." He grinned, leaning down to kiss her. Marius' blood boiled in his veins.

"Good-bye, Marius!"

"And good-bye, Monsieur le baron!" Cosette chimed in, giggling as Courfeyrac twirled her.


End file.
